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It Girl
Nic Tatano
~Veronica Summer is stuck in the dream job from hell.The spunky New York reporter is offered the network's morning anchor position, but she doesn't want it because she's a night person. Then the network plays a trump card, promising her the evening anchor chair in three years. So the fiery redhead takes the plunge, with the ultimate gig waiting down the road.Problem is, that road is filled with two am wake-up calls and the only social life she has is one with bats and raccoons. She quickly realizes she'll never survive the grind and decides the only way out is to get fired by being her snarky self on live television.And the ratings skyrocket.Veronica becomes the nation's It Girl, so the network makes her a celebrity contestant on its most popular nighttime dance competition show, Dance Off. While her journalistic credibility is shot to hell by the show's skimpy costumes, she's thrown into close contact with two incredibly attractive men; her dance partner and the show's sarcastic British judge.And she soon discovers that love is the ultimate gig.
It Girl
Nic Tatano
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Contents
Nic Tatano (#u5297b9ba-a23f-5a75-ba9f-03d8074c4d6a)
Dedication (#u14a388ea-c40f-5623-a2c0-3c67e8b31069)
CHAPTER ONE (#u5d7a1899-840d-5474-8c93-153ac0b67fe0)
CHAPTER TWO (#u2b313dfb-57c0-512e-ac06-159863cee2eb)
CHAPTER THREE (#u4bb08e74-b27c-5047-bcc5-7a258f13f410)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u5ff271df-7051-5dac-bc57-0b28e4ebea01)
CHAPTER FIVE (#uf50ba182-b3d9-5558-8bb0-b12d29d12fc9)
CHAPTER SIX (#u36bb63d3-0aed-50e9-86fc-4418ea8e6797)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#uaca1885c-7344-5ff5-9247-27c03f333a7e)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#u541bb788-3ac0-5380-bd1a-8532a162c63d)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
BONUS MATERIAL (#litres_trial_promo)
About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Nic Tatano (#u84c8cafb-cb45-5112-8795-f6e4f243f555)
I've always been a writer of some sort, having spent my career working as a reporter, anchor or producer in television news. Fiction is a lot more fun, since you don't have to deal with those pesky things known as facts. I grew up in the New York City metropolitan area and now live on the Gulf Coast where I will never shovel snow again. I'm happily married to a math teacher and we share our wonderful home with our tortoiseshell tabby cat, Gypsy.
You can follow me on Twitter @NicTatano.
For Myra, my real life It Girl
CHAPTER ONE (#u84c8cafb-cb45-5112-8795-f6e4f243f555)
"My network's twenty–million-dollar-a-year morning anchor just got arrested for soliciting a prostitute."
While I've made a habit of getting major exclusives as a television reporter, this latest juicy scoop brought the conversation at our dinner table to a screeching halt.
And the next words you hear should tell you that you need to get out of your conventional mode of thinking.
"She hired a prostitute?"
That's right. She.
See what I mean? You naturally assumed said morning anchor was a man looking for a hookup with some silicone babe on a Manhattan street corner. But nooooo, in this case we're talking about television's reigning "It Girl" who heretofore was assumed to be pure as the driven snow by the network executives who hired her.
At least they got the driven part right.
Snow White in handcuffs.
Film at eleven.
This simple text message from my contact at the cop shop meant the bigwigs who ran my network would be looking for a replacement. Immediately. You can't exactly get the kids ready for school while watching an anchor who thinks half 'n' half is something other than what you put in your coffee. Anyway, it wouldn't take long for the vultures who wanted the job to start circling.
I would not be one of them. But even the chance that the network might pluck me from the local affiliate for this job from hell sent a chill up my spine.
Yeah, you heard me. Twenty million dollar job from hell. It was a gig this intrepid television reporter didn't want.
And in the back of my mind I knew, thanks to Murphy's Law, they'd want me for it.
Sonofabitch. I hate it when people offer me huge contracts.
My best friend Layla raised one perfectly plucked dark eyebrow like a question mark. "Veronica, you gonna throw your hat in the ring?"
"Hell, no!" I said, as I grabbed my wine glass and took a bigger sip than normal. A pre-emptive strike in case said hat ended up in said ring.
Since you're probably wondering why a local TV reporter wouldn't want a network anchor slot that pays a fortune, I should probably tell you a little about my method of deductive reasoning. I'm Veronica Summer, the top hard news reporter for the network's New York City flagship affiliate. The local version of an "It Girl." And at the age of thirty-two, this tall, green-eyed redhead has her career just where she wants it. I get the lead story almost every night, take no prisoners, and am generally considered to be the best old-school journalist in town. So the last thing I need is a job that forces me to talk about purses, hair color and breast feeding at the crack of dawn. There's a network job I want, a dream job, and that aint it.
Even if it pays about a hundred times more than my current salary.
"Why the hell don't y'all apply?" asked Savannah, the sultry Southern brunette who is the most logical in our group.
"Because the morning show is a bunch of soft bullshit," I said. "That's not me."
"I watch that show while I'm on the treadmill," said Layla, who probably saw the dollar signs that came with the job before anything else. "They do some serious interviews. You could still do your Brenda Starr thing."
"Yeah, and that's about ten percent of the show," I said. "The operative word being show, not newscast. The other two hours are a flying Mongolian cluster of fluff consisting of musical guests, dieting tips and how to avoid picking up killer germs from shopping cart handles." I threw up my hands and shook them. "Run for your lives!"
Layla sat up straight and smiled as a cute guy walked by our table, then twirled a few strands of her jet black hair as she made eye contact. "You're gonna get a call."
"Pffft," I said, waving my hand like I was shooing a fly even though I knew she was right. "They've got a deep bench at the network. I'm not even a blip on their radar."
The discussion was thankfully interrupted as dinner arrived. Our regular waiter, a cute thirtysomething guy named Frank, slid a huge plate of fettuccine Alfredo with shrimp in from of me. I licked my lips. "Lotta cheese, as usual?" he asked.
"You know what I like," I said. His cheese grater hovered over my plate as he carpet-bombed my dinner with parmesan. I was thinking that even with twenty mil per year I'd still eat at this place. Loud and brassy, always busy with hardly any space between the tables, it had great food and portions large enough to end up with a to-go box for a midnight snack. The waiter finished serving and moved on to another table, while I turned my attention to one of the many flat screens that hung around the perimeter in the hopes of changing the topic. "Hey, the Mets are actually winning." I twirled some pasta with a shrimp into a neat ball and popped it in my mouth. Nothing like butter, cream, cheese, pasta and crustaceans to take your mind off things.
"Don't change the subject," said Layla. "You need to apply."
"They don't have someone like y'all," said Savannah. "You're pretty, smart, have the quickest wit of anyone I know. I'm sure men wouldn't mind waking up to you."
"The jury's out on that," said Layla, "because she throws them out the night before."
"I meant on television," said Savannah.
"And it pays twenty … million … dollars," said Layla. "Cha-ching."
I shook my head as I dabbed my mouth with a napkin. "The outgoing anchor has been there ten years. They're not going to pay that much for someone new."
"So you wouldn't do it for ten million?" asked Layla. She lowered her voice and said, "Cha-ching," again.
"It's a moot point," I said. "I'd take the evening anchor job in a heartbeat, but I'm not the kind of person they want for mornings. The 'P' word is a necessary skill set for that show."
"‘P’ word?" asked Savannah.
"Perky!" I said. I playfully batted my lashes as I widened my eyes and turned my voice into that of a high-pitched brainless bimbo. "It's what all morning shows want! Someone upbeat and cheerful before the sun comes up! Good morning! It's a beautiful day! Let's all be happy while you get your precious little snowflakes ready for school!" I went back to my normal sarcastic tone. "Can you picture me on a morning show? Hey guys, I'm Veronica Summer. What the hell are you guys doing up? Fuhgeddaboudit! Go back to bed and let the little bastards make their own damn school lunches!"
"Yeah, you're not exactly little miss sunshine in the morning. But you could fake it," said Layla. "You're good at faking things."
"Funny," I said, sneering at her. "Trust me, they're not going to call."
I really wanted to believe that as the discussion finally ended.
But dammit, they called the next day.
***
The network morning show is called, quite simply, The Morning Show. How much they paid someone to come up with that incredibly clever title is a closely guarded secret. Rumor has it that ten years ago network executives went off on a three day retreat to revamp the morning offering and come up with a new name for the thing. After a long weekend running up a huge bill at some exotic getaway in the Bahamas and countless hours of brainstorming someone came up with the ground-breaking idea to add capital letters to the concept.
The people in Congress have nothing on network executives, who have raised lack of productivity to an art form.
Anyway, The Morning Show's executive producer Gavin Karlson was already seated at the last table in the restaurant when I arrived a few minutes after twelve on Saturday afternoon. The huge teddy bear of a man in the camel's hair sport coat and starched white shirt stood up to greet me, towering over me by nearly a foot. "Veronica, nice to finally meet you."
"Same here," I said. A waiter came by and pulled out my chair. "Thank you," I said as I sat down and he handed me a brown leather-bound menu with a gold tassel in the middle. Natural light spilled through the windows, giving rich tones to the dark paneled walls of the old place.
The fortyish egg-faced bald producer (a dead ringer for Doctor Evil) studied me with his piercing gray eyes, probably looking to see if I had that starry-eyed look most prospective network anchors have on interviews. I smiled casually, as if this were just a run of the mill two hundred dollar lunch with a co-worker. Besides, I didn't want the job anyway. But when a network exec invites you to lunch at the city's oldest and most expensive restaurant, or even a hot dog stand, you jump, because you never know what's down the road. Don't burn a bridge before you even cross it. "So," I said, "getting any sleep lately?"
